The Belfry Of Bruges Carillon

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    In the ancient town of Bruges,
    In the quaint old Flemish city,
    As the evening shades descended,
    Low and loud and sweetly blended,
    Low at times and loud at times,
    And changing like a poet's rhymes,
    Rang the beautiful wild chimes
    From the Belfry in the market
    Of the ancient town of Bruges.

    Then, with deep sonorous clangor
    Calmly answering their sweet anger,
    When the wrangling bells had ended,
    Slowly struck the clock eleven,
    And, from out the silent heaven,
    Silence on the town descended.
    Silence, silence everywhere,
    On the earth and in the air,
    Save that footsteps here and there
    Of some burgher home returning,
    By the street lamps faintly burning,
    For a moment woke the echoes
    Of the ancient town of Bruges.

    But amid my broken slumbers
    Still I heard those magic numbers,
    As they loud proclaimed the flight
    And stolen marches of the night;
    Till their chimes in sweet collision
    Mingled with each wandering vision,
    Mingled with the fortune-telling
    Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
    Which amid the waste expanses
    Of the silent land of trances
    Have their solitary dwelling;
    All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
    In the quaint old Flemish city.

    And I thought how like these chimes
    Are the poet's airy rhymes,
    All his rhymes and roundelays,
    His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
    From the belfry of his brain,
    Scattered downward, though in vain,
    On the roofs and stones of cities!
    For by night the drowsy ear
    Under its curtains cannot hear,
    And by day men go their ways,
    Hearing the music as they pass,
    But deeming it no more, alas!
    Than the hollow sound of brass.

    Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
    Lodging at some humble inn
    In the narrow lanes of life,
    When the dusk and hush of night
    Shut out the incessant din
    Of daylight and its toil and strife,
    May listen with a calm delight
    To the poet's melodies,
    Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
    Intermingled with the song,
    Thoughts that he has cherished long;
    Hears amid the chime and singing
    The bells of his own village ringing,
    And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
    Wet with most delicious tears.

    Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
    In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,
    Listening with a wild delight
    To the chimes that, through the night
    Bang their changes from the Belfry
    Of that quaint old Flemish city.